


Some Days You Just Need A Little More

by Faetality



Series: Steter Bingo Smut 2018 [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Body Worship, Established Relationship, M/M, Massage, Peter Hale Feels, Psychological Scars, Scars, They love each other so much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-28 10:35:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16239878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faetality/pseuds/Faetality
Summary: There were days when it was hard to look in the mirror. To face yourself and the years gathered on your skin.





	Some Days You Just Need A Little More

**Author's Note:**

> For the squares Body Worship, Free Space,

* * *

There were days when it was hard to look in the mirror. To face yourself and the years gathered on your skin. Stiles understood it; which was why when Peter took his hands in his own before they could cup his face in greeting he knew it was a hard day. “I think I’m going to lay down for a while.”

 

Stiles let him go. 

There were times to push and times to let his lover have his space. After four years of dating he’d learned when to do each. So he made dinner, ate a little, and put the rest away for later. It’d been over an hour, if the smell of food hasn’t brought Peter out clearly he’d have to go to the wolf himself. First things first, he needed to brush his teeth.

 

He and Peter both had their scars, and while Stiles wore his on his skin Peter carried them invisibly. They’d been through hell over the years and sometimes they had to stop moving. He opens the door to a dark room, Peter a dark shape on the bed. “Can I join you?”

A noncommittal hum was as good as a yes. He sits on the side, Peter had his eyes closed, hands clasped over his stomach and even in the dim light the worry lines on his face were easy to see. He touches the furrowed brow lightly, drawing fingertips down the man’s nose. Peter’s lips quirk, just a fraction but it’s enough, and he turns his head toward Stiles’ thigh. 

At times like this touch was a fragile thing, when the scars in his head crawled over his skin, when he felt every inch of his years. Stiles didn’t pretend to understand the feeling, his own was so very different, but he liked to think he understood Peter. His fingers moved to stroke his hair, waiting until the wolf relaxed more.

“Can I touch?”

Another hum.

 

Stiles moves away, goes to Peter’s feet and with reverent hands removes his socks,firmly pressing his thumb along the arch of his feet one at a time. He’d like to think he was rather good at massages by now and by the way Peter relaxed down into the mattress he’d have to say he agreed.

“I’m sorry your day was rough.” He whispers, testing the reaction he gets. There isn’t one; so he moves on.

 

The jeans comes off next, briefs left on for the time being. This wasn’t sexual, this was about contact, where it went later was up to Peter. He lets the fabric pile on the floor, sitting between Peter’s legs with his hands on the other’s knees. “I love you.” Hands slide up to the crease of his thighs, squeeze lightly and drag back down. “I love your smile.” Back and forth, gentle but firm. As he works his way to Peter’s calves he pulls his leg to rest crooked in his lap, keeping a careful watch on the wolf’s face. “I love your mind.” He drops a soft kiss to the side of his knee and keeps massaging. In order for a werewolf to scar there was a lot of trauma that had to occur, or poison, but there were some scars that could persist simply through the emotions tied to them. There was one on the outside of Peter’s thigh, a tiny thing less than a half inch long. He ghosts fingers over it and feels the muscles tense, he skirts away.

The other leg receives the same treatment before he shifts higher on his knees to lean up, pressing his lips against the skin just above the waistband of Peter’s underwear. He flicks his eyes up and sees that Peter is watching him now, his hands moving to the sides to let Stiles continue. So he takes the next logical steps and slides Peter’s shirt up, exposing his stomach but leaving it on until the man decided to help him take it off. “I love your body.” Another tensing of the muscles under his hands. He slides hands over his sides, resting them on his ribs. He wants nothing more than to turn on a light, even the one in the hall if it would let him see more but it’s not what Peter needed now. Stiles straddles his hips instead. The light from the window is enough to see the way Peter is looking at him, like he doesn’t know how to react to this. He never does.

 

Peter’s lips part under his own easily, his chest heaves, but Stiles stays leaned over him, not caging him but surrounding all the same. “Can I take your shirt off, baby?” He’s kissing him again before he can get an answer, just a slow press of lips that feels like an eternity between them. When he pulls away the wolf nods and sits up enough for the Henley to come off.

Stiles would never fail to be struck dumb by having Peter under him. The broad chest and abs, the sparse dusting of hair over his pecs where he’d decided to let it grow for now, the thick neck that was perfect for sucking little marks into. It was his to worship, just as every inch of him was Peter’s.

So he does. He starts with hollow of his throat between his collar bones, dragging lips over it and down to his pecs. It’s sensual and reverent and he feels the chest beneath him hitch. He starts on the right, always the right. On these days the scars are closer to the top and there were some things that needed to be eased forward. “So beautiful.”

“ _Stiles_.”

“Beautiful.” His hands are moving again, circles on his skin, up and up until his thumbs brush over dusky nipples. It’s a risk but Peter arches and sucks in a deep breath, one hand coming to grab at the back of Stiles’ head.

“Please.”

Another soft kiss. “I’ve got you.” He plans to worship every inch of skin at his disposal but still he sits up, keeping up the movements of his hands. “What do you need?” Already his wolf is looking blissed out, there’s a bobbing of his throat, eyes squeezed shut.

“Everything.”

That’s enough. He slips back down to his covered cock, trailing kisses all the way down until the waistband is in the way. He mouths at the bulging fabric, moves his hands to grip Peter’s where they’re clutching the sheets. “I love this,” He kisses the little birthmark on the top of Peter’s hip and goes back to his cock. He’s loathe to let go of his lover’s hands, so he contents himself with following the motions of scent marking him. Drawing deep inhales at the v of his hips, resting his cheek on the bones and letting his breath dampen the cloth. It’s not until Peter relaxes that he draws hands away and pulls the fabric down his thighs to join the rest of the clothes on the floor.

He wants to ask what caused this, why his wolf was so quiet, why he why shying away. But he doesn’t. He waits. He wraps his hand around the thick base of Peter’s cock and licks before taking him down. He gets a hand in his hair for the trouble, fingers loose, just needing that contact. He digs thumbs into his muscles of Peter’s thighs, kneading while he focused on taking his lover’s cock to the hilt.

Stiles loved everything about Peter, both body and mind. Though sometimes they fought he never loved him less. But Peter’s cock, that was something else entirely and to hold it on his tongue, the thick weight heavy, and it was work to take it into his throat. He loves this, he loves making him feel good. He loves the feeling of fingers in his hair and the sounds that come from his throat. The fingers jerk the same moment the head of his cock touches his throat and he gags, pulls back, takes it again. He continues like that, his hand slides up to rest on the heaving stomach, he strokes his thumb there until the wolf catches his breath, tilts his head back and whines. “Stiles, in me. I need you in me.”

 

“Yeah, baby. Yeah okay.” The lube is in the bedside drawer and Stiles has to clamber to reach it, stopping to kiss Peter’s cheek and neck and shoulder. He throws his own shirt to the floor followed by his jeans, takes his place back between the spread legs. He grips on ankle, pushes it up until the leg is resting on his shoulder and he drags lips over the fragile skin. Peter was sharp comments and bitten words during the day, but to tell someone how he surrendered and begged and whined and screamed when he was under him they would never believe it. They would never get to see the way his jaw trembled and he fought to get the words out when he finally surrendered. The roll of his body when he needed more but didn’t know how to ask for it. The way he wouldn’t look at Stiles when they were like this. Like acknowledging the love and the worship he was being shone would break it. His eyes were closed again, the first touch of lube to his hole had them open and focused on the wall above his head.

“God’s you’re beautiful.” The sheets strain but there aren’t any claws and he pushes on, finger sliding in. “Absolutely stunning, I love your eyes. Your lips.” The leg on his shoulder jerks and his free hand catches it, settling it so his foot is braced against the front of Stiles’ shoulder. “I love your thighs, and your neck. I love seeing you wear my marks, even just for a moment.” He kisses his ankle. “I love the way you open up for me.” He arches off the bed when two fingers brush his prostate and Stiles holds him steady. “All mine.” He’s patient with the wolf, coaxing him into relaxation with three then four fingers, until words spill from his lips like sweet wine. They weren’t begging but they were breathy gasping things.

“Please, gods Stiles please!”

 

Peter braced a hand on the bed and twisted like he was going to turn over and Stiles presses his hand against his shoulder to stop him. “No. I want to see you.” He wasn’t going to let him shy away from this, to turn from what Stiles was giving to him. Every ounce of devotion he had. Whispered to him like a secret.

“I want you to see me.”

 

He holds his thigh, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, over hand a more gentle weight around the leg and leans forward, pushing in with one slow slide. He stops a little less than half way, draws back and does it again. Under him Peter is beautiful, strung out and begging without words. Baring his neck and arching his hips for more mouth opening on gasps that never make it out. But his eyes are closed. “Open your eyes.”

“Stiles.”

“Look at me.” He cups his head and pushes, leaning forward so their foreheads are touching. “I love you. Every inch of you, you’re beautiful and not a day goes by I don’t want to worship you.” It’s too much. Peter jerks and shakes his head but Stiles is firm, adjusts his grip on his leg and pulls out, feels broad hands scramble to hold him and find purchase on his back.“I love you.”

They didn’t need words after that, every push and pull, every kiss and moan; it was their prayers. Their hymns to raise to the moon. Peter started to let go, started demanded in soft words and sighs, “more, please, harder, _Mieczyslaw_.” Stiles obliged, thrust harder, kissed him more, flicked his nipples just to see him arch and cry out.

Stiles came with Peter’s name on his lips and the feeling of the wolf shuddering beneath him. He pulled out only to drop down beside him and coax him into his side, stealing tiny kisses between heaving breaths. They lay there for a while like that, sharing space and letting their hands wander until Peter shuddered out an exhale and shoved his face into the crook of Stiles’ neck. Wetness on his skin went ignored but for the stroking of his wolf’s hair, letting him take was he needed.

 

Some days were hard. But sometimes it was okay.

**Author's Note:**

> I love these men so much.


End file.
